


nothing could kill me like you do

by dustyloves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pizza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyloves/pseuds/dustyloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I’ve got what is without exaggeration the worst hangover in the history of man. I’m <i>morbidly</i> hungover. Like, about to start spewing green slime like the demon from <i>The Exorcist</i> level hungover. I feel worse than Ernest Hemingway probably did the morning after he pulled a skylight down on his head.'</p><p>Grantaire is having a hard time. Enjolras takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing could kill me like you do

**Author's Note:**

> What's up Les Mis fandom! I haven't written fic in literally six years, but here I am. As they say on Pokémon, I choose you. If you want to chat gay French revolutionaries, I'm on [Tumblr](http://theo-decker.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Title from Rita Ora's song Poison.

Grantaire wakes up in bed shuddering, heart pounding. He blinks; his vision clears. The vodka bottle on his dresser is empty. He doesn’t remember finishing it.

Groaning, he pulls the blankets over his head, closes his eyes again. He can’t endure this. His only hope is sleeping it off, but, god, he can’t take a full breath. His chest is tight.

For a long moment, he lies there, trying to stay as still as possible. 

The buzzer goes off.

’ _Fuck_ ,’ Grantaire says into the duvet. He can’t imagine who could possibly be calling before noon, besides his landlord or like, the police.

The buzzer goes off six more times, and Grantaire finally hauls himself out of bed, cursing and dragging most of the blankets with him. He slams the button to open the front door, wrenches his own apartment door open and is greeted by the sight of Enjolras, fresh-faced despite the early hour, cheeks glowing rosy from the cold, in his neat red blazer, not a hair out of place.

‘So, I was wondering why you weren’t replying to my texts, and Joly told me you were having a tough time mental health-wise, so I came over to see how you were,’ Enjolras says in lieu of a greeting.

Grantaire doesn’t have it in him to reply. He draws his blankets tighter around him and turns back, heading towards the bedroom. Unfazed, Enjolras follows, the door falling shut behind him. 

'You know you can always come to me for support if you’re struggling,’ Enjolras goes on. 'I am your _boyfriend_ Grantaire, and I know you don’t think I get it, but I–’

'Noble of you to offer, but now is not the time,’ Grantaire snaps, a little sharper than he intends. 'I’ve got what is without exaggeration the worst hangover in the history of man. I’m _morbidly_ hungover. Like, about to start spewing green slime like the demon from _The Exorcist_ level hungover. I feel worse than Ernest Hemingway probably did the morning after he pulled a skylight down on his head.’ He crawls back into bed, pulling the blankets up to his neck, squeezes his eyes shut tight. 

Enjolras says nothing. After a moment, there’s the soft sound of something dropping to the floor. Grantaire cracks one eye open. Enjolras, having shrugged off his jacket, is now unbuckling his belt.

'What are you–’

Enjolras drops his jeans, climbs into bed in his t-shirt and briefs, grabs a corner of the duvet and tugs. 'C'mon.' 

'God, the entitlement,’ Grantaire grumbles, despite the warm flare of affection inside him, and he spreads the covers over him. Enjolras shifts closer, spoons up behind Grantaire, solid heat against his back. He smells clean, like shampoo and mint. Grantaire breathes him in gratefully. 

'You’re shaking,’ Enjolras murmurs against his neck. 'Why are you shaking?’

'Just happens,’ Grantaire says, eyes fluttering closed again. 'When you’re really hungover after a long bender.’

'Like withdrawal shakes?’

'Kind of.' 

Enjolras hums, reaches across Grantaire’s waist and takes his hand. After a few quiet moments, their breathing falls into sync, and Grantaire feels his heart rate slow to something like normal. 

'Thank you,’ Grantaire remembers to whisper before slipping off into velvety darkness, and Enjolras squeezes his hand in response.

-

When Grantaire wakes again, Enjolras has rolled to the other side of the bed and is only visible by the tufts of gold hair poking out the top of the covers. Grantaire sits up gingerly so as not to disturb him. Enjolras stirs, and Grantaire freezes; but Enjolras merely turns over and gathers the blankets closer. Grantaire smiles. Enjolras’ values of equality in everything do not apply to bedsheets.

His head feels better, stomach no longer churning. He reaches for his phone on the dresser, looks up the number of the nearest pizza place. 

Enjolras sleeps soundly through Grantaire making the call, through the racket of the coffee beans grinding in the machine as Grantaire makes a fresh pot, through the melodrama and faux outrage of the daytime talk show Grantaire flips on, through the buzz of the front door. It’s only when Grantaire sits down and opens the first pizza box that he suddenly comes to life.

'You got pizza?’ Enjolras yawns, his voice sleep-rough and cracking. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. ’ _Now_ he wakes up.’

'I could smell it.’ Enjolras sits up. 'Is that a Veggie Feast?’

'Of course,’ Grantaire says, proffering the box. 'Only the best for our fearless leader.’

'I fucking love you,’ Enjolras says with real intensity, and snatches a slice.

Grantaire cracks up, pats Enjolras’ sleep-ruffled head, then gets up to fetch the coffee and mugs from the kitchen. As an afterthought, he snags a beer from the refrigerator.

Enjolras stops short at the sight of it, mouth still full of pizza. 'Do you have to start that right now?’

Grantaire frowns. 'It’s not that early. It’s like half two.’

'That _is_ early.’

'Having a beer with lunch isn’t that weird.’

'But it won’t just _be_ one beer, will it?' 

Grantaire flushes, feeling roughly as if he’s walked into a packed lecture hall with no pants on, except a thousand times worse.

Enjolras softens. 'Why do you feel the need to be drunk right now?’

Grantaire can’t meet his gaze. He clears his throat a couple of times, and addresses his own bare feet.

'I just don’t like being stuck in my own head.’

Enjolras gets up from the bed and walks over to face him. 

'You don’t have to be,’ he says, very gently. 'You’re with me.’

'Yeah, but you’ll leave,’ Grantaire says, and immediately wants to die at how childlike he sounds. 'It’s okay right now, but then you’ll _leave_ , and at the end of the night I’ll be sitting up by myself and I won’t be able to sleep and I’ll be so alone. I _need_ to be drunk.’

'So I won’t leave,’ Enjolras says. 'I’ll stay with you.’

Horribly, shamefully, some actual tears escape Grantaire’s eyes at that, and when Enjolras reaches for him, he can’t stop himself from lurching weakly into his arms. 

'I’ll stay with you,’ Enjolras repeats firmly, and Grantaire clings to him. 'Okay?’

'Okay,’ Grantaire manages. 

Enjolras holds him tight until the sobs recede, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

'Sorry,’ Grantaire mumbles into Enjolras’ now-soggy cotton t-shirt. 'Now the pizza will have gone cold. I’m such an idiot.’

'I like it cold,’ says Enjolras agreeably. 'And don’t call yourself an idiot, idiot.’

'Fuck you,’ Grantaire says, and Enjolras pulls back and catches his mouth in a kiss.


End file.
